Wreckage on the shore serves as a warning and reminder. The sea can turn violent in a moment. Another harsh winter’s ahead for all of us in these parts. And commercial fishing’s an especially dangerous occupation.
Just look at what it does to metal.
Tag: New England
TRACING THE MILL RUNS ALONG THE RIVER
The seed was planted back when I lived along the Susquehanna River and was introduced to the trail that twisted through a wooded strip between the water and the freeway.
The site included a bridge now closed to vehicular traffic and a low dam that once diverted water to power cigar factories along the shore. The mill trace remained, filling with moody water after a heavy rainfall.
As I imagined the vanished mills as they might have been in their prime, Big Inca Versus a New Pony Express Rider began to take shape. The town where I lived, after all, was in economic decline and would have welcomed an infusion of investment.
That wasn’t a singular site, even along that particular river. As I would later observe, the opportunity was repeated throughout the Northeast – and many of the communities still had the old buildings, usually in boarded up condition.
As the intervening decades have demonstrated, I wasn’t completely off-mark.
Come along, then, and see where it leads. Just click here.
WHEN NOR’EASTERS HIT HOME
New England gets hit by nasty storms called nor’easters. Often, they’re like off-season, slow-moving hurricanes that move up the coastline, spinning wind off the ocean and inward over land. That is, the wet wind comes out of the east. (Although, to be technical, it often arrives out of the south.)
Sometimes, their wallop comes as heavy rain. At other times, it’s tons of snow – even a blizzard. Either way, power outages, falling trees, wind damage to roofs and chimneys, and flooding can follow.
A power outage with flooding knocks the sump pump out, as well, and then there goes the furnace, if there are delays in restoring electrical service. To say nothing of the freezer out in the barn.
~*~
The so-called Perfect Storm, by the way, was one more nor’easter. A reminder to take these things quite seriously.
MOHEGAN ISLAND
There’s a romantic allure to the idea of living on an island, and Maine has more than its share. Still, a day visit can be memorable.
ON THE HILL
For a decade, I lived on the highest point in the city of Manchester. Sometimes I called the development Yuppieville on the Mountain, but its views of sunsets could be stupendous. There was even a city-run ski lift on the other side of the freeway.
ALONG THE MERRIMACK
For three years I lived along the banks of the Merrimack River, a primary energy source for 19th century New England industry.
JUST WHERE DID I DEVELOP THAT TASTE?
Ever look back and wonder when you first encountered an item that’s now one of your go-to menu items?
Oh, I can remember when pizzas first invaded our neighborhood – the smell of oregano easily triggers that preschool memory!
But the Greek wrap called a gyro – and pronounced HE-ro – remains a mystery. I may have discovered it, along with souvlaki, in the late ’70s in the University District of Seattle, back when we’d visit from the interior desert. Or it may have come from a takeout place we ordered from at the newspaper, a decade-and-a-half later.
I do remember a heavenly example from a wood-fired stove at the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine, back in 2002 – along with a wait in a very long line.
More recently, it’s been the highlight of dinner before our weekly choir rehearsals in Watertown, Massachusetts.
Just remember, no onions on mine, please.
DWELLING WITH A GHOST
New Englanders – at least those living in old houses – will occasionally speak of ghosts, and their stories can be compelling, no matter how skeptical the listener.
Of course, the specifics can differ. A dark apparition moving silently through dark hallways – or, in other modes, clumping loudly up and down the staircase. Leave empty junk food wrappers and soda cans and bottles on the counters and coffee table and even in the unmade sheets. Laugh eerily at midnight. Slide in front of you at the bathroom door, close it, lock it.
Drain the wi-fi bandwidth.
Expect steak and lobster and cheese while ignoring lettuce or eggs or peas.
But have you ever heard of a trail of stench that follows its movement? Oh, that detail is so telling. The fear of taking a shower, as well – the soap and washcloth remaining untouched.
They speak of the chill you feel, more than the dense smoky cloud. Or the echoing conversation as it’s twisted with a chortle and thrown back.
One version, in fact, has every intimate conversation accompanied by a Hollywood laugh track. And that, I’ll contend, is the most annoying.
LOAF OF SLICED BREAD
A boulder resembles a round loaf on a breadboard. Maybe it’s just there for giants in the night. The leaves on the ground give an idea of its size.
MORE THAN THE BAKLAVA
When I moved to Baltimore, I was surprised to find all of the local pizza parlors were owned by Greeks. Not Italians?
Well, it took time before I discovered the alternatives, beginning in the city’s Little Italy.
But that occurred about the same time I was told most diners were owned by Greeks, too. And I’ve come to love diners, even though I’d been introduced to the real thing way back right after college. They just weren’t fashionable then.
Well, somewhere in-between there had been the Dairy Queen owned by a Greek-American who, though a big error by the Bank of France, wound up instantly nearly seven-figures rich – and took flight to his homeland before the error was discovered. It was a big news story where I was for the next month, before he repented and returned.
So more recently, I ordered a pizza from a local parlor. Wanted to support a young friend who works there. When I picked up the box, there was no gaudy image of a fat smiling chef on the top of the steaming box – a good sign, in my book. And then I noticed the design was mostly white with blue trim, adhering to the national Greek colors. Along with a border of … the signature Greek key pattern. OK, I thought. I get it. Even before I noticed the words gyros and pizza in a little house, side by side.
That does it. I’m definitely going back for a gyro.
And, for the record, the box is distributed from our favorite Italian grocery in Portland, Maine. Has me wondering about the rest of the story.
